


build love, build god, build provinces

by sapphire2309



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Experimental Style, F/M, Panic Attacks, Slow Build, Tea and Conversation, this is as soft as i can make it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:35:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 2,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22463440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphire2309/pseuds/sapphire2309
Summary: The Winter Soldier finds comfort in the interior design of the Black Widow's floor of the Tower
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanoff
Comments: 12
Kudos: 44
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	1. my face is full of spiderwebs, all tender yellow-blue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blueberry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueberry/gifts).



> guess who's tripping on Ashley Nicolette Frangipane's (Manic)*? (hint: it me.)
> 
> i hope you enjoy this, blueberry!!!

The Black Widow's floor of the Tower is soothing to the Winter Soldier's eyes. Everything is in shades of a warm creamy-beige, with darkly ironic red accents scattered throughout.

The Soldier is not sure why he keeps finding himself there. He cannot possibly have seen it before, but it feels absurdly familiar. He feels... safe, here. Of late, he has taken to standing at parade rest just outside the elevator of the Widow's floor whenever he finds himself out of sorts, leaving when his heart rate dips to an acceptable rate. He has never actually seen the Widow herself. Just her abode, which is a stark contrast to the reputation she's created for herself. Gentle and inviting, where she herself is ruthless and forbidding. 

Still, he finds himself... comforted... by the ghost of her presence, by the imprints she's left of herself on her space. It seems a harmless enough predilection, so he does not curb it.

Besides, he has never been caught.


	2. infatuation's observation with a cause

The elevator has been speaking incessantly to the Soldier since long before he stumbled his way out into the Widow’s foyer and situated himself into a passable parade rest. He ignores it. Ignores all sound, in fact, a task made easier by the thundering rush of blood in his ears, tries to blink sight back into his eyes, find a point of focus in his blurred-out vision. 

Breathes in. Breathes out.

Slowly, the familiar shades of crimson and beige clarify into shapes and forms that he has come to associate with safety. His shoulders relax, his breathing slows, his heart rate levels out. 

"Can you hear me now, Sir?" the elevator inquires, just as a woman emerges from a room somewhere to his left, wiping sweat from her neck with a towel, drawing his attention.

She raises her head.

She looks directly at him.

He startles. Badly. Crashes into the wall in his attempt to move into a combat-ready position. Leaves himself dazed in the process.

He grits his teeth as he straightens up, one hand braced against the wall, blinking black spots out of his vision, and tries to get his other arm into a defensive position. (That was an abysmal reaction. He is meant to be _better_ than this.)

"JARVIS mentioned that you'd been dropping by," the woman - the _Widow,_ the _Black Widow_ \- says, tone eerily light, voice registering even through the daze that clouds his senses. "Looking for anything in particular?" 

She does not otherwise acknowledges his presence as she traverses the foyer to get to the kitchen.

He blinks.

For all she knows, he could be an active threat, and _this_ is her choice of response? He'd heard rumours of her purported arrogance, but he’d thought them unfounded. 

Then again, this could be some kind of calculated response. The Black Widow did not gain the reputation she has through indulging such foolishness as _arrogance._

He lowers his guard warily and turns to follow her progress. She picks up a water bottle from a neat row on the countertop and drinks from it unceremoniously.

"You are her," he says. "The Black Widow."

She puts the bottle down and tilts her head to the side, considering. "I'm _a_ Black Widow," she replies finally.

"The rest are dead now. That means you are _the_ Black Widow."

She looks disapproving. "I prefer Natasha Romanoff."

"Romanova?"

 _"Romanoff,"_ she says sharply.

She's moved over to a different part of the kitchen by now, and appears to be fixing herself some tea.

He scrambles after her as if reeled in by some mysterious lure. "I knew a Natalia. Natachka. She was incredibly skilled. A warrior. A good soldier. I have… fond memories." He pauses. “Fragments of memories.”

The Widow does not respond.

"Are you... her?" he asks hopefully.

She narrows her eyes, considers. Then, decisively, she says, "Not anymore." Her crisp tone firmly discourages any further inquiry down that line.

He understands. The past is a minefield, one best cordoned off and hidden away for people like her. He would include himself in that reckoning, if his memory bothered to store things of import in anything but the thinnest fragments, the daintiest shards of spun glass in his clumsy fingers. He can rattle off all sorts of technical details about himself and his weapons. But actual memories… there’s nothing worthwhile there. 

He doesn't even remember his own name.

"People say my name is James Buchanan Barnes," he tells her. "Bucky." He's careful with the syllables of his name, of both his names, reverent like a child, aware that this is something sacred, but not quite sure how. "They make no sense, the people. I am the asset. Codename Winter Soldier. The Asset does not have a name."

The Widow nods, as if it makes sense. (It would, to her.) She only asks, "What do I call you then?"

That throws him for a moment. No one's asked anything like that of him in a long time. 

"Soldier," he decides finally.

"Okay, Soldier. You can call me Natasha. Want some tea?"

His brows furrow in confusion. He's not sure what this entails.

"Try some. You might like it." She's already fetching him a mug.

He nods. He knows orders. He can follow them.


	3. you cut me open, sucked the poison from an aging wound

The Soldier blinks, assessing his surroundings as his senses come back online. He is on the Widow's - _Natasha's_ \- floor, which is unsurprising, though he does wonder how he made it there. He knows from experience that his limbs are utterly unreliable when he gets like this, floundering and flailing things that barely support him as he tries to get himself to where he wants to be. Perhaps the voice called JARVIS guided him somehow. Either way, he is there, a few steps out of the elevator, gasping and scrambling for a support.

Natasha herself is sprawled out on a recliner. She is dressed in a tank top and loose lounge pants in navy blue and black. She stands out from her surroundings, but doesn't clash with them, instead forming a gentle contrast. He wonders if that is intentional. She is sipping something out of a mug, studying him curiously.

"Limb- uh, limbic system malfunction," he explains haltingly.

She considers, head cocked. "Skin contact increases oxytocin secretion. Could help get your limbic system back on track." She shifts to the side and pats the space she's made on the recliner.

The Soldier stares at her blankly. "You are a potential threat."

Natasha shrugs. "So are you."

"My handlers will not allow this. It is a deviation from protocol."

Natasha studies him, her expression neutral but soft. "You don't have handlers here. You get to decide for yourself."

The Soldier moves closer slowly, and then, when he is within reach of it, he falls forward onto the recliner next to the Widow, aware that he is vulnerable but also aware that he is an uninvited guest who has been graciously allowed to remain, that he owes a debt here.

The Widow places a hand on his upper back, and it does not register as a threat. It provides... comfort.

He turns his head towards her. Quietly, he says, "You smell like her. Like my Natachka."

"I suppose I would," comes the nonchalant reply, a few quiet moments later.


	4. there's power in the words you whisper

The first time he goes to her floor while entirely functional, he asks the JARVIS voice to communicate his intentions beforehand and ask permission on his behalf. He feels it prudent, and prefers politeness over other approaches, given that he is something of an unwelcome guest in this Tower, and the- Natasha is the only person he truly interacts with. . 

When permission is granted, he doesn't know whether it is expected or a surprise. Nonetheless, he makes his way upstairs, fully aware for once, and exits the elevator hesitatingly when prompted.

"Soldier," Natasha says, striding towards the foyer, looking, as she usually does when he drops by, like she was working out moments ago. "You called before visiting this time."

He nods.

She doesn't comment on it any further. "Tea?" she asks, as she bypasses him entirely in favour of the kitchen.

"I would like you to call me James," he says instead of responding.

Natasha, behind a counter, quirks an eyebrow. "Interesting choice. Any particular reason?"

He looks, at her, visibly uncomfortable. "Everyone has a name. And I. Wanted one too."

Natasha shrugs. "Okay, James."

His face tics slightly. He winces.

"Weird?"

"I will get used to it."

"Takes time, yeah." She's moving around her kitchen comfortably, and he envies her her grace, and her comfort within her space.

Maybe that's why he's here. Maybe he hopes to... osmose some of her obvious comfort in her surroundings, in spite of her past, in spite of her training.

Maybe he likes being around her because she might possibly understand him better than he understands himself.

On second thought, that last sounds terrifying. He hopes she doesn't.

(She is a Widow. She does. Of course she does.)

"So, James," she says, interrupting his thoughts, "did you like the Darjeeling tea from last time?"

His face twists into a grimace. "I do not think I will like any tea."

Natasha waves away his concerns. "No harm in trying. Besides, even if you don't like a one of them, you'll know what's out there. What you can tolerate with copious amounts of sugar. Anyways, I'm thinking of having you try a few tisanes once we run through the main types of tea. Today's is an oolong..."

He - _James_ \- settles himself on the couch and listens to her explain the tea of the day to him, eyes falling half-shut and face relaxing as he does.


	5. hanging on the line, ignoring every warning sign

James bursts into the room he knows Natasha exercises in. A rather incautious move, all things considered.

He expects gym equipment. He sees a setup that's more like a dance studio than a gym. There’s mats and full length mirrors and barres along the walls.

He flops onto the floor next to where she's stretched out, closes his eyes, and prays she doesn't throw him out.

“Tell me about my Natachka. Please.”

She doesn’t throw him out.


	6. dancing in your living room, and up come your fists

They are sitting side by side, sipping at their respective cups of a rather interesting spiced tisane called _kahwa_ that Natasha says originated in the valleys of Kashmir, meant to help people keep warm during deep winters, when it occurs to him that she gains absolutely nothing from these encounters of theirs.

"Why are you being nice to me?" he asks, as soon as the thought occurs to him, because evidently he left subtlety behind when he came over today.

He looks up at her, expression frank and curious. It occurs to him that she might have been saying something when he interrupted her. He has no memory of sound from before that moment. Only his own train of thought, and then his unseemly outburst.

"I like to keep an eye on potential threats," she says lightly, and somehow, he is unconvinced.

"You don't have to..." he gestures, frustrated at the lack of words, "...be nice and give me tea while keeping an eye on me. There are other ways."

Natasha's expression closes off. "You know how they trained us in the Red Room. We’re stealth weapons, trained in subtlety. It’s practically force of habit to manipulate and deceive."

"No," James says, surprisingly sure of himself. "This is not that."

"If you're fishing for something specific, you should let me know. I'm not a mind reader."

It has been quite some time since he has made use of even the mildest forms of invective, but he is so full of frustrated energy that he’s tempted to punch something just to get some release, so he says, "I just want the truth, _damn_ it." 

She shrugs coolly. "You have it."

He runs his hands through his hair, huffing, frustrated. "That's not-"

"I think you should leave now, James." The Widow's voice is low and dangerous.

All the hair on his arms stands on end. 

He bolts, abandoning his tea and disappearing into the elevator that opens as he approaches the foyer.


	7. 'cause i could never hold a perfect thing and not demolish it

He has a panic attack.

He hides in his own room.


	8. soft and slow, watch the minutes go, count out loud

He makes his way to her kitchen, armed with a small box of teabags of a tisane he thinks Natasha might like.

Something in him wants to panic. He doesn't let it. 

He attempts to emulate Natasha's fluid style of movement, craving the familiarity he recalls fondly, but he's too stiff. Too nervous. The kettle boils the same, anyhow.

When Natasha returns, she's obviously returning from a fight. Bruised but not bloody - she’s been patched up - and coiled as tight as a spring under a brick. She spots him and narrows her eyes, one hand on something likely designed to brutally shock its victim.

He clears his throat. 

"This is a tisane,” he tells her. “It tastes like orange and spices. The lady at the store recommended it. It was a fancy tea store, not the supermarket."

She watches him warily.

"I don't know why you're doing this, but it doesn't matter. We could. Carry on anyway."

Natasha strides up to the other side of the counter, takes one of the mugs he's offering, and sips it cautiously. She rolls the tea across her palate and considers. "It’s all right," she judges.

He sighs, relieved.


	9. beautiful strangers only come along to do you wrong

He brushes her hair out of her face as she sips a lemon and ginger tisane, and she goes stiff for a fraction of a second, and he finally understands.


	10. but i think it's finally, finally, finally, finally....

"Do you... like me?" he asks her, over a rather disastrous berry concoction.

Natasha's expression, predictably, shutters.

"You don't have to say anything," he rushes to say.

If anything, his attempt at reassurance only infuriates her. She glares at him, lips twitching like she's holding back choice insults. 

(She looks beautiful, contained fury and all.)

Eventually, words tumble from her mouth, uncontrolled. "It wasn't supposed to- I wasn't supposed to. I just _saw_ you, and saw how you were hurting, and thought, I can do something about that. You weren’t supposed to see me _back._ I wasn't supposed to f--" She breaks off, fuming.

James leans forward earnestly. "I like you too."

Natasha rolls her eyes. "You don't have to spare my feelings, James, I can take care of myself.

"No, I-" He gives up on words quickly. If she was going to be convinced by them, she would have shown some sign of it by now. Instead, cautiously telegraphing every move, he lowers his head, takes her hand, and presses his lips to it.

Natasha blinks rapidly. "Damn you, James," she says, her voice thick.

He holds her gaze.

She seizes his hair in a fist and crushes her lips to his.

He melts into her.


End file.
